A doctor met me at the triage desk. He looked exhausted, the kind of tired that seeps into your bones. He glanced at his clipboard, then at me, with a look of pity that made my stomach turn.
“Mrs. Turner,” he said softly. “Before we go back there, I need you to prepare yourself. Your husband has sustained some cracked ribs and significant bruising. He’s on pain management.”
“Is he awake?” I asked.
“He is. But… the situation is delicate.”
He led me down the corridor, past moaning patients and beeping machines. We stopped at Bay 4. The doctor hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before sliding the curtain back.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply dropped to my knees.
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